Ouroboros
by wikiaddicted723
Summary: "...grief and all its myriad friends have flavors, presences, sensations, and he's felt them all. He gives her time, and perhaps he gives too much. She grows distant and she doesn't notice, but he does. She pretends it's all the same, like nothing's changed, as if convincing him will convince her."


_**A/N:** _As you can expect this is more from the AGT verse. Thanks to all those of you who have been reading and enjoying it. I hope it isn't too confusing. Reviews are awesome things :D

* * *

_**Ou-ro-bo-ros**_

_noun_

_Circular symbol depicting a serpent or dragon swallowing its tail. Represents self-reflexivity, cyclicality. It can also represent the idea of primordial unity related to something existing or persisting from the beginning with such force that it cannot be extinguished. _

_(1998)_

"I never took you for a coward."

It's delivered dryly, voice almost amused. Peter wonders when it was that Nick learned how to lie. The tension in his shoulders disappears, dissipates in the eerie silence of early morning as his stance relaxes on command. It's still dark outside.

Better like this, he supposes. At least it'll save him the guilt of not saying goodbye, of leaving without warning in advance. He chuckles darkly but there is no joy to the sound, menacing and self-deprecating all at once.

"I'm surprised. Where have you been for the last five years?" he says, because he can't not speak, not to Nick. It's not his fault, nothing ever is. He can't help but think it's not her fault either. There were always too many variables to be accounted for, too many ramifications of actions they never could control. Their foundations had been fractured from the start and, like a house of cards, they were bound to crumble with a sigh. He was never meant to be here anyway, was never meant for them, for her. An accident, that's all he is, and he can't stay.

A sigh.

"Peter…this is ridiculous. It doesn't have to be like this."

"Doesn't it?" he answers, still turned away, duffel heavy on his shoulder. "Frankly, I think it's taken me too long," he doesn't want to hurt anymore. He's done enough, and he's not wanted.

"And I think you're being bullheaded and stupid. Did you even stop to think about what this means for her, for us? The tests won't stop just because you're gone, not to mention the jobs." Nick is trying not to raise his voice.

Peter turns around, his movements brusque. "You think I don't know that?" he seethes. He feels like screaming. "There's nothing I can do for her that you can't do as well. Nothing you can't do better." He's just in the way if he stays. He's tired of fighting, tired of seeing her hurt herself in the name of whatever the hell their purpose might be (she can do just as well without him to bear witness). Tired of being nothing but a fuck toy that's as disposable as he's easily replaced. And ok, yeah, maybe he's a little angry.

"Bullshit, Peter. Never tell a lie you can't believe. You taught me that, remember?" Nick snaps, frustrated. "We need you. We've always needed you."

"I don't know if you've noticed but I'm not exactly super soldier material, _Nick_. Some of my freak factor must've gotten lost in the mail, sorry to disappoint you."

He can almost feel Nick deflate. "Is anything I say going to change your mind?"

"Not really," he says around the lump in his throat. He turns the doorknob and steps through, but the door takes too long to click shut behind his back.

"What do I tell her?" Nick says, weariness plain in his posture, his hunched shoulders, his voice. He almost looks old. He's not even twenty.

"Don't say anything, if she doesn't ask."

"And if she does?"

"She won't." Peter only hopes Nick understands. If anyone can, it's him.

He leaves. He doesn't know where he's going, not yet. It isn't like it matters, anyway. The world is not large enough to keep his thoughts from drifting back to them, and any place will do. Any place but here.

Peter is not nearly delusional enough to believe he'll manage to stay away (he's never been all that strong), but he can always try.

* * *

It would be preposterous to say that Olivia hadn't been expecting this. She'd been expecting it for years. Him leaving, not saying goodbye, not really saying anything at all…it doesn't come as a surprise. Whatever they are, the three of them, it was never meant to last, just like he was never meant to stay. How could he, when all she has to offer is mediocre at best? Why would he, when he alone has half a chance to take a stab at something close to normal?

No, she's not surprised he's left. It was a long time coming, unannounced only to those that never pay attention, that don't bother with detail. It's the tears running down her cheeks, drowning in the soft cotton of a pillow that smells of him that seem strange and out of place, and make her jaw clench. In anger, in frustration, in a million other fragments of feelings that itch under her skin, sharp like shards of glass, uncomfortable like rubbing sand on blisters and aimed at no one but herself.

Tears are solutions only to a child's issues. They speak of weakness, of a loss of control she can no longer afford. She hasn't cried in years.

And it's ironic, because he used to be the one who'd make the tears go away. Nick would hold her, soothe her, try to make her laugh, but it was always him, solid and warm and silent against her back that would get her to calm down. Now he's gone and he's taken her strength with him, and she wants to hate him just a little but she can't. She can't because he never deserved to be stuck with them in the first place, and she's the guilty party on that count.

Olivia shouldn't be here, in this abandoned room, on this lonely bed. She shouldn't clutch his pillow tight, like a child on a scary night, nor should she miss the weight of his embrace, the light touch of his hands. She's not a child anymore.

Loving someone is a funny thing. She would fail at it even if it came with a handbook, if she followed every rule. Love is cruel, and it hurts. It's forgetful and it's clumsy, it leaves permanent damage and it doesn't care. It's a thing of beauty. She wouldn't know it if it announced itself and shook her hand, but love is subtle and cunning and it sneaks past all defenses. It takes root at the bottom of your heart, right below your sternum. It spreads like a parasite, like acid, like the phantom feeling of lost limbs, the kind that disappears in direct light, under your stare. With every wound it burrows deeper, clutches tighter, until it can't be driven out without ripping your chest open on the way. Love is a madman, a thief, the hope of early morning and a broken promise in the night. Love is fear. Of being left alone, of losing all and having no one but yourself to blame. And perhaps love is beyond all comprehension, outside of time, outside of reason, independent of the world. Perhaps it's not for her to feel.

Maybe that's why she's bit her tongue more than once, when he's near, at night. Why she can't stand the way he's naturally caring, patient, tender without a second thought. He's effortless in the way he shows affection, and it's too much for her, at times. It makes it hard to keep her head on straight, to remember that's the way he's always been, that it doesn't mean a thing.

But it doesn't matter now, not anymore. Regret is her companion, it keeps close to her. It never leaves. She greets the sunrise like this: awake, fully dressed, eyes red and red-rimmed and watery, body curled tight on itself, pillow clutched against her chest. By the time it's light outside her mind's been made. She washes every sheet and every pillowcase, and leaves the room like she was never there.

Every feeling fades, after a while. She can handle pain. She has time.

* * *

Life goes on. It doesn't stop for anyone. It runs.

After that first night, the tears go away. Nick knows, because he always knows. Because grief and all its myriad friends have flavors, presences, sensations, and he's felt them all. He gives her time, and perhaps he gives too much. She grows distant and she doesn't notice, but he does. She pretends it's all the same, like nothing's changed, as if convincing him will convince her. It becomes a game of charade she plays with herself, and Nick wonders if they've ever done something other than pretend.

Pretend they're normal, pretend they're happy, pretend the hurt just goes away.

He wishes she'd realize that he's still there. He hasn't left. But then again, he was never enough, not for her. And that's not him feeling sorry for himself, it's just a statement of the facts. He's never held it against her. She has always needed more than he knows how to give, on a chemical scale. It galls, it does. It keeps him awake sometimes, to know the pain he's caused because of some inherent defect, something he can't help but lack.

The thoughts he keeps for Peter aren't kind. _Nothing I can't do better, my ass_. That's the thought most often running through his mind. How can a man be so brilliant and so stupid all at once? To think he's not essential, to think anyone could be so easily replaced. It makes him angry, and there's very little in the world that manages to make him so. Nick keeps himself calm, relaxed out of necessity. The drugs help. They change his prescription every couple of years, every time one of the new brains manages to come up with something better. And why not? He's a lab rat already. So long as it keeps him from harming anyone unintentionally he doesn't mind. Compared to the things he's lived through within those bleach-white walls, testing drugs designed for public consumption is a walk in the park.

What Peter never managed to figure out was that it has never just been Olive that needs his steadying presence. They're the simplest chain reaction, a triad of reactants dependent on each other to maintain a basic equilibrium. Take one of three away and what becomes of them? They were never good enough when they were just a pair. Nick's allowed to miss him too, is he not?

Months go by, more than he cares to count. That was always more on Olive's ground. He's never had a head for numbers, and his spatial reasoning is iffy at the best of times. Anyway, the days fly by, like cigarette ash that's been misplaced by a sudden gust of wind. They get tested, they get sent places. Not many and not far, but it's the most awkward Nick's felt in a long time, like he's less one arm. The jobs are easy, short. He's almost thankful for them after a while. She keeps the act up admirably, so much so that Nick would be tempted to believe, had he only eyes to see, to know her for who she really is. But he knows that every night she breaks, slowly, silently. She stares at the red numbers on her Bed Bath and Beyond bedside clock, black, nondescript like so many items littering the house, and she thinks the night away. He can feel the thoughts eating away at her, at both of them, like rabid dogs chasing their tails. He sleeps just as bad these days.

It's worse when she collapses, when her body simply won't respond because she's too exhausted and he's forced to badger her into a few hours of reticent sleep. That's when the nightmares come their way. They're full of fire, full of dark, dank places and death, always death. There's not a thing he can do to keep them at bay — _Fuck you, Bishop_, he thinks again. It's not a stretch to say not sleeping ends up being their preferred state. All in all, it's a pretty miserable span of days, and Nick's mood only worsens as his worry deepens.

That's when Peter gets shot.

* * *

Peter's been many things over the years: son, lab rat, thief, corporate spy. He's been a wet boy, a college drop-out. He's been a barman, an illegal fighter and a gambler. He could go on, but it gets boring. The one thing he's never been before this moment is _hunted._

The pain is searing, excruciating. Never in all his seven years of wet work has he felt anything alike. Mind you, he's been stabbed, he's had bones broken in three places all at once, but he's never been shot at before —correction: no shot aimed his way has ever had the fortune of hitting him square between his shoulder and chest. Right shoulder; thank his bad luck for small mercies. He runs. He can no longer remember how the fuck he managed to get off the train. For a second there, only Emir's bloodied face remains. It was a good face, broad, generic, unassuming. An honest face in an old smuggler, no outlaw could have asked for a greater gift. Any decent grifter knows that. He won't be using that face ever again, but then he won't really need to. In a few weeks time, he'll just be a corpse on the side of the road, a few hundred miles outside Ankara. It's the only thought Peter will ever spare the man.

The job was supposed to be simple, easy as breathing. They were to illegally board a deliberately mislabeled cart on a freight train going all the way to Istanbul, the contents pointedly designated _not-their-goddamned-business_ (more than likely knockoffs and a few stolen relics here and there), their intent to guard said cargo until relieved at the final stop, where they'd be given the back half of the agreed sum of money and sent their merry way. A handsome amount, just enough to pique his interest. He was on his way back up to Europe anyway, he hadn't seen why not.

They'd been on the train less than two days before the incident, passing time gambling on a game of checkers made of mismatched nuts and bolts, on a board drawn with chalk on the badly lit floor. The raki helped to make things interesting. Anise is really not his favorite thing, but he won't say no to any alcohol that's free. They'd gone through an entire bottle before stopping at a midway station for the night, where they proceeded to get busted by cops far too well armed to think there might be no one to fight. Which could mean nothing in itself, Peter's known a guy or two that would trade their mothers for a big enough gun, like it'll change whatever they've got attached to their balls. But if the blood running down his arm is anything to judge by (and what kind of cop is told to shoot on fucking sight instead of bringing in?), it most likely meant they'd been sold out by someone else, someone with a nose for business and a hunger for tactical advantage. If yours is the only post at the bazaar with knockoffs of a kind, you're the only one who gets to prey on unsuspecting tourists.

When he stops moving he does so because he stumbles on the side of the road, his feet slipping on the gravel like it's ceramic under a layer of soap. Like a puppet whose strings have been cut, he tumbles to the ground, haphazardly, gracelessly. Rolling around, he lies flat on his back, looks up at a sky with more stars than he's seen in all his life, little bright lights spanning out at the edges of his vision (only later will he realize it was too light out for stars). If he's been followed this far up the hill, he commends whoever trains these guys. It's not an easy feat to catch a man who's made for running, who has nothing of worth left to loose. His vision is blurry, his fingertips numb. His whole arm tingles. Soon he'll be cold enough to shiver, and he'll have lost enough blood to be as good as dead in a town where he's little less than an unwelcome stranger. He almost regrets not saying goodbye, then.

Peter's thought of them often. More often than he'd like in any case. It's difficult not to, when every facial scar merits a double take while walking in the streets of a small eastern European town. When every set of wide green eyes drives him out of whatever bar he's at like he's been set on fire —it's really no wonder he avoided northern Europe altogether. When he can't help but wonder what she'd say on the actual size of the Mona Lisa, mischievous woman buried in a coffin of bulletproof glass, held up for everyone to see; of the sight of Paris from high up the Eiffel tower in the night, the deep turquoise of Italian seas. Nick would have loved Germany. He'd have been at home in Salzburg and enjoyed Vienna just as much, particularly the coffee. Monaco would have been scoffed at, until the Aquarium promptly shut them up. It's an exercise in futility, trying to keep them off his mind.

It's fitting, that his last conscious thought is how disappointed they'd be of him.

* * *

When it happens, it happens fast. Peter gets shot, and they both feel it (they can't know he's been shot, of course, only that he's wounded, and badly at that). The pain is sharp, intense. It's the aftermath that lingers, razing what's left of her defenses to the ground by virtue empathic transfer. Pain resides in the brain, after all.

Nick can't remember the last time he slept. He can't remember the last time he left the house. It's a good thing he chose not to take classes for the summer, or he'd have failed them all by now. It's gotten to the point where the sofa's pretty much molded to his ass, and the back of his neck has been stiff for so long he doubts he'll regain full mobility with just a few days' rest. In the last week alone he's finished three games with names he can't recall, only keeping count because the discs lie strewn on the low table he's been using to rest both coffee mugs and feet.

Olive is a ghost lying by his side, her pallor sickly, shining with the ever present sweat that indicates a fever. She's cold, chilled to the bone and shivery. Every time she stands she wobbles on her feet. Her appetite, bad enough on normal days, is all but gone. The only one who hates seeing her like this more than him is her, he knows. With the added bonus of suffering only of chronic worry and the distant echoes of her secondhand symptoms it's left to him to care for her. Nick is more than happy to oblige.

There's a debt he's never paid, from that time when she made it her quest to give him back a life, to show him things get better if given enough time. She gave him a family, when his was dead and gone and cold beneath the ground. She gave him strength and he could never give it back.

He's hers, in any capacity she needs him to be. Peter is too, has been from the start, with a devotion Nick can only gape at and hope to emulate, but the idiot is too stubborn to see the truths that lie close enough to slap him in the face, most of the time. It's a trait he shares with Olive. They love themselves too little to think someone else might see their worth. And it's a headache in the making at the best of times, dealing with the endless push and prod and pull of their insecurities put together in a room. It's a yearning without respite, like a thirst that can't be quenched, a hunger that does not abate. And it's their fight, and he can do nothing but sit and watch, and hope. He could point, but shortcuts do more harm than good, sometimes.

So, it's the aftermath that lingers. She shakes and sweats and tries to keep a cool façade, like she's not driving herself mad with worries and regrets, lying with him on the couch to watch him hack at virtual opponents until his joints ache and his eyes demand a rest, or his coffee has gone cold or he's finished it all and needs to put on a new pot. He's pretty sure his body chemistry currently consists of at least two parts caffeine. There's also the dismal discovery that single player isn't quite as fun. Especially not when half his thought processes are stuck wondering if he'd be able to tell if Peter died. He's sure he'd know, if only because Olive would feel the absence like a gaping void. It's a thought that makes him bitter, makes him scared. If he believed there was a god somewhere, he'd pray.

"Nick?" she speaks, one night. "How do you do it?" Her voice is soft.

"Do what, Olive?"

"How do you stay…here, with me?" He can tell she's half asleep. Any other moment, any other time, and she'd be too closed off to ask.

"And where else would I go, silly?"

"Dunno. Somewhere nice. Somewhere happy."

"This is nice," he says gently. Dealing with people just about to fall asleep is akin to handling volatile liquids. If you're not careful enough, something's bound to explode. "I'm happy here, most of the time."

"And the rest? Of the time, I mean." She won't look at him.

"The rest of the time I deal, Olive, because you taught me to. I don't think anyone's happy all the time, you know? I really don't see how."

Silence.

"Do you think Peter was happy here?"

Well maybe pointing is good, once in a while, if the direction is obtuse enough that it looks more like a spasm. "…I think…I think he's afraid that this is the only place he'll ever be." He waits a while, but there's no response. "Olive?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

"You know I love you, right?" _Now_ she looks at him. She looks long and hard with exhaustion written in her eyes. She smiles.

"I know," she says simply, quietly. It's enough. Her head gives an involuntary nod before she catches herself, trying to blink sleep away.

"C'mon sleepy Han, time for bed," he says. He doesn't offer to carry her, he knows enough to try and keep her pride intact, but he keeps his hands on her back, lending support however he can. He figures if he's there to catch she might not fall.

Nick sighs. Everything gets better, given time.

* * *

Eight months, seventeen days.

It's the piano that heralds his arrival, and that's just as well. The rich sounds, the versatile tones, they've always suited him. The instrument is malleable —no, not malleable. _Adaptable_. Olivia has always loved to hear him play. Music speaks, it says things words can never hope to convey, things too grand, things too small, things better left unsaid.

He's thinner, tanned, his body harsher in the light, muscles standing out through the soft material of his ribbed tank as his back tenses and releases, long fingers flying over the keys. They're decided, precise, like a surgeon's incision. He knows she's watching. But of course, he loves an audience; just for this, he loves an audience. She'd heard him before she turned the key, hesitated before stepping through. Slow steps, tentative, cautious. He did not turn, did not stop — how very like him. She knows she shouldn't, but she's missed him, she's missed his manner.

The piece rises and falls and comes to an end, and Olivia's still standing, leaning against the kitchen table where she's placed her jacket, absent minded.

"Hey," Peter says, speaks first, his voice subdued, restrained. Penitent, almost. He's turned around on the bench. She keeps silent. Maybe she doesn't know what to say, maybe she doesn't want to. She stares instead. He's been inside for some time, the clothes are clean, fresh, his nails are trimmed, his hair is slightly damp. Nick hasn't been home for a while.

Eight months, seventeen days, and all he thinks to say is "hey".

The bench gives a silent screech as he rises, his brow furrowed as he steps towards her. She's feels his confusion, the pointed prodding of his mind. He expects her to be angry. But anger requires energy, like fire, and she's _tired. _

"Are you staying?" she asks, tries to not sound hopeful. Peter looks away, leans back against the nearest corner of the couch.

"I'm not sure," he says, and she knows it's the only honest answer he's willing to give. It hurts.

Olivia nods and feels his eyes on her. She looks down. "Next time you go just…say something. 'Goodbye' will do, I think." She picks her bag from the ground and makes to walk away before he grabs her arm. His touch is light, as always. As if stating that she doesn't need to stay, that she could very well be on her way. She stops instead, looks back.

Peter sighs, his hand slides down to her palm. " 'Livia, I'm sorry. I— "

"Peter, it's fine," she stops him with her free hand. "I get it. You don't need to explain." He doesn't owe her anything.

"Fuck, ok, look. I'm an asshole, ok?" he tries, stepping close. "I think it's safe to assume we both know that. So how about we skip this over to the part where I give you a hug you don't want and you take pity on me, yeah? I can beg, if you want," he says it so earnestly she has to smile. He shuffles on his feet, a little nervous perhaps.

"Sure," she tells him, shrugs half-heartedly with the shoulder not attached to the hand in his grasp. Theirs is a natural rhythm, easy as breathing. She's gotten very good at pretending.

And then he's gathering her into his arms, her hand against his ribs, close enough that she can feel the thumping of his heart, smell the soap on his skin, over his shirt. It's pacifying, like someone's dialed the world down on Dolby Surround. Like pressing your ear hard into the cold, hollowed out ceramic of the tub under the running shower, every sound but the rush of water drowned. _Enjoy it while it lasts_, she tells herself.

She's mindful of his shoulder when she hugs back, aware of the pinkish, puckered scar that's new to her eyes. Later he'll tell her, of the children that had found him lying on the street, unconscious, bleeding. Of the doctor they dragged up the hill, for him. He'll tell her many, many things, but never what he really means to say, that he missed her every day.

It's a vice of theirs, a downwards spiral of avoidance built on things they've left unsaid. It leaves them blind and deaf, angry and afraid. This is their life.

Rewind, go back. Press play. Repeat as needed.


End file.
